


The pallid youth

by Sunfreckle



Category: Piet Paaltjens (Author)
Genre: 19th Century, Cw imagery of death, Gen, Poetry, Romantic Poetry, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: Translation of the Dutch poem "De Bleeke Jongeling" by the 19th century poet Piet Paaltjens (François Haverschmidt).This is proper dark romantic poetry, something the Dutch do not excell in at all. Which is why this poem is special to me.It features a broken-hearted youth grieving amongst the splendure of nature.





	The pallid youth

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted this poem to feature in one of my stories and since I could find no English translation I decided to make one myself. Many thanks to my sister and the friends that indulged my obsession and were coaxed into proofreading.

**The pallid youth**    
  
  
‘Tis evening. At the western shore  
Sinks, shining bright, like golden ore,  
The sun, as if a bow to take.  
In the waters of the gentle lake,  
That colours all shades scarlet red,  
And like a blushing newlywed,  
Welcomes the sun into its bed.   
  
‘Tis evening. Through the heather sharp  
Like notes plucked from Aeolus’ harp,  
Now sighs the breeze, and kisses sweet  
Each sleeping flower it may meet.  
The songs of nightingale and thrush  
Now in the tops of trees do hush,  
As do the crickets in the underbrush.  
  
‘Tis evening. By the quiet lake  
A pallid youth his seat did take.  
Dark eyes on the western sky,  
Where the sun’s last rays still lie.  
Now from those eyes cold tears depart,  
As he with suf’ring grief does smart,  
A grief, – to break a young man’s heart.  
  
‘Tis night. Already drowned in dark  
Is the sun’s last fiery spark.  
Darkness now, deep as the grave  
Spreads itself across field and wave.  
Only rustling leaves now fill the air  
And the murmur of the waters there -  
Yet straight ahead the youth does stare.  
  
‘Tis morn. A purest rosy hue  
Paints in the east the dawn anew.  
Rose colours silver, melts to gold,  
Into a golden sea that cannot hold  
The scarlet fire of the sun, escaping,  
Rising ‘gainst the sky’s velvet draping,  
In purple the mists of morning shaping.  
  
‘Tis morning. By the quiet lake,  
Still on the spot the youth did take,  
Pale features gaze, turned to the west,  
But blind now to the light so blessed.  
To the flowers, in their bloom employed.  
Once flowing hot, now cold and void  
Is the youth’s red blood. – His heart destroyed.

 

* * *

  

_Original text ([source](http://4umi.com/paaltjens/jongeling)):_

 

 **De bleeke jongeling**  
  
  
't Avondt. Aan de westertrans  
Zinkt, in goud gehuld en glans,  
Statig 't zonnelicht ter neer  
In den schoot van 't wieglend meer,  
Dat, als 't bloosde van verlangen,  
Om het in zijn bed te ontvangen,  
Inkarnaat voelt gloeien op zijn wangen.  
  
't Avondt. Door het heidekruid  
Suist als aeoolsharpgeluid  
't Windeken en kust zoo zacht  
Al de bloempjes goedennacht.  
't Orgelend lied der vooglenkelen  
Zwijgt in 't loover der abeelen,  
't Sjirpend krekeltjen in de struweelen.  
  
't Avondt. Aan den zoom van't meer  
Zit een bleeke jongeling neer.  
't Donker oog, naar 't west gericht,  
Volgt het scheidend zonnelicht.  
Tranen aan dat oog ontleken,  
Die van grievend lijden spreken,  
Lijden, – dat een jongelingshart doet breken.  
  
't Nacht. En lange reeds verdronk  
Ook de laatste zonnevonk.  
Duisternis als van het graf  
Daalde op meer en velden af.  
Slechts het suizen van de blaren  
Hoort men en 't geruisch der baren. -  
Immer blijft de jongeling voor zich staren.  
  
't Morgent. En een maagdlijk blond  
Verft in 't oost den horizont.  
't Blond verzilvert. 't Zilver smelt  
Tot een goudzee. Trotsch ontsnelt  
't Vlammend zonvuur aan de kimmen.  
Damp en nevelen verglimmen  
Straks tot purper bij zijn opwaartsklimmen.  
  
't Morgent. Aan den zoom van 't meer  
Zit nog steeds de jongeling neer,  
't Bleek gelaat naar 't west gericht.  
Maar zijn oog is blind voor 't licht,  
Voor de bloemen, weer ontloken.  
Opgehouden heeft te koken  
's Jongelings bloed. – Zijn harte was gebroken.


End file.
